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‘Move over, Sun Tzu. There’s a new master strategist in town.’

  ‘If you’ve got a better plan, let’s hear it.’

  ‘I don’t get involved with tactics. I’m just here as moral support.’

  Trev snorted. ‘Right.’

  Aware that he was standing just inside the entrance, apparently talking to himself, he decided to make himself a little less obtrusive and join the party.

  ‘You never know,’ he muttered, ‘this might even be fun.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Oscar.

  He was right.

  Sixteen

  Trev was relieved that nobody took any noticeable interest in him. He blended into the crowd and pretended to browse the stalls while keeping an eye out for Sarah. The majority of items for sale were unremarkable. Most of the goods were old – the supernatural community didn’t seem to have much taste for the modern – but looked little different from the kind of stuff you’d find at any antiques fair. Nothing stood out to Trev when he extended his “spooky senses”, such as they were. Oscar was silent, so obviously he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary either. Or maybe he was just asleep.

  Trev stopped to take a closer look at one of the stalls, which had a hand-painted sign proclaiming its goods to be “PSYCHIC ARTEFACTS”. They looked much like the bric-a-brac on display everywhere else; various personal items, the odd ornament and a handful of things Trev couldn’t easily identify. Possibly they qualified as “outsider art” or some other pretentious term. The stallholder was a dark-haired young woman wrapped up in a woollen overcoat, hat, and scarf. She was drinking from a huge disposable coffee cup that looked like a wastepaper basket with a lid.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing Trev’s interest.

  ‘Hello,’ said Trev.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Well,’ said Trev, frowning, ‘I was wondering what a “psychic artefact” was, exactly.’

  The stallholder pursed her lips. ‘Items that respond to psychic energy.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trev. ‘Like a vapour weapon?’

  ‘I don’t sell weapons,’ the woman replied hurriedly.

  ‘I didn’t say that you did.’ Trev picked up a battered pocket watch and squinted at it. ‘I was just asking if these items held a psychic charge in the same way.’

  ‘Sort of. It’s much stronger in vapour weapons though. Fighting brings out stronger emotions.’

  Trev held up the watch. ‘So what do they do?’

  ‘Don’t look at the watch. Tell me what time it is.’

  ‘Eleven thirty-eight,’ said Trev, without thinking. He blinked. ‘What the..?’

  The stallholder held up her phone, its screen showing him that the time was indeed eleven thirty-eight. ‘Not bad. You’ve got the Sight, then.’

  ‘A touch,’ said Trev, shrugging. He looked down at the watch. The face was cracked and it wasn’t even wound and running. ‘So if I hold this, I know what time it is without looking?’

  ‘Yes. Useful, right?’ The stallholder had perked up, smelling a potential sale.

  Trev scratched his chin. ‘Well, in the time it takes to put my hand in my pocket and touch the watch, I could just pull my sleeve back and look at my wristwatch. And then I wouldn’t have to carry a pocket watch around like some smug hipster.’

  The look he got told him he might be in danger of outstaying his welcome. The stallholder put out a hand and took the watch back. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Um,’ Trev’s eyes roamed across the rest of her stock. ‘Have you got anything that does something, you know…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Useful?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by useful.’ The stallholder was rapidly losing interest in the conversation. She sipped her coffee and stared at the crowd, as if hoping that Trev would just disappear.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Trev, ‘something that turns you invisible. Or lets you fly. Or gives you this week’s lottery numbers.’

  He succeeded in getting her attention back, at least.

  ‘Oh piss off, will you?’ she snapped. ‘Who are you, anyway? I’ve never seen you at any other parties. Are you a Custodian?’

  A few heads turned round at that. ‘You think I’d have got past security if I was?’ Trev replied.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ the stallholder said. ‘Whoever you are, if you’re not serious about buying, you can go and annoy some other poor sod.’

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ said Trev, holding up his hands.

  He merged back into the crowd. ‘That was smooth,’ said Oscar from the depths of his coat.

  ‘Making friends and influencing people, that’s me,’ said Trev. ‘It was a reasonable question though, right?’

  ‘What, asking if she had anything useful?’ asked Oscar. ‘Don’t be a knob. If she had any of the good stuff, she wouldn’t be freezing her arse off at a pax party. She’d be selling it through Fisher’s, most likely. She probably thought you were just rubbing it in.’

  Trev frowned. ‘Really? No wonder she seemed pissed off. Who or what is Fisher’s?’

  ‘Auctioneers,’ said Oscar. ‘They sell the properly valuable artefacts. There are plenty of wealthy collectors who’ll pay big money for the spooky stuff.’

  ‘And that’s legal?’

  ‘Depends. Most of their business is above board, rare items with no dangerous properties or questions about ownership. But it’s always been rumoured that Fisher’s does a side-line in more dubious stuff.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘Maybe. Or things that shouldn’t be in circulation. Weapons, for example. Remember that banshee ball your old mate Corbyn had? Custodians’ best guess was that he bought it through Fisher’s, not that they can prove it.’

  Trev shrugged. ‘Money talks, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. And Fisher’s aren’t short of it.’

  Trev became aware that a few people were looking at him, presumably wondering why he was muttering into his coat. He cleared his throat and pretended to study some vintage clothing on a nearby stall. There was a Victorian smoking jacket in deep red velvet that he quite fancied, but a look at the price-tag informed him he would have to make do with his tatty dressing gown for lounging around the flat.

  He took the opportunity to get a closer look at his fellow browsers. There was a broad range of ages on show, and a roughly even male-to-female ratio. Although the majority were white, a number of other races were represented; Trev saw a grey-bearded Sikh man stride past, impeccably turned out in a Nehru jacket, overcoat and orange turban. It appeared the supernatural world transcended cultural boundaries.

  The DJ continued pounding out a succession of identikit dance tracks, the thump-thump-thump of the electronic beat providing an odd contrast to the retro vibe of the rest of the party. Trev drifted in the direction of the dance-floor, drawn more by the smell of bacon sandwiches than the music. He decided to invest in some refreshments. Having put in a solid ten or fifteen minutes of surveillance, he felt he’d earned a break.

  The two food stands offered generic takeaway fare. Trev played it safe and went for a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. He found an empty table off to the side and sat down. It was a good spot to watch the crowd, partially hidden behind one of the braziers. The only downside was that one side of him was being cooked medium rare while the other remained frozen. He felt like a chicken drumstick at one of his uncle’s infamous barbeques, where you arrived with a bottle and left with gastroenteritis. Cooking was not a noteworthy Irwin family trait.

  Trev tried to ignore the sensation of his ear gently roasting and contemplated his plan to find Sarah, which still consisted of general loitering around until he either spotted her or got thrown out. It was difficult to avoid the conclusion that he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, but the sandwich and tea revived his spirits a little. He tried to think like a cunning spy, wiping ketchup off his chin as suavely as he could.

  The crowd around the stalls didn’t seem to be thinning, though most peo
ple were talking rather than buying. Despite the frantic music it was all pretty relaxed; for a community that had to keep itself hidden, the opportunity to mingle with their peers while safe from Custodian oversight must’ve been very welcome. Trev had expected something a little more anarchic, and didn’t know whether to be disappointed. There were no werewolves charging about on all fours, ghouls stealing the cars, or vampires drinking Bloody Marys with real blood. It was kind of, well, pedestrian.

  ‘Spotted her yet?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘No,’ said Trev. ‘Feel free to come out of there and help.’

  ‘You’re doing a great job and I have full faith in you,’ the kitten replied. ‘Wake me up as soon as you spot her.’

  Trev was sorely tempted to yank open his coat so that Oscar fell into the mud underneath the table, but that would only mean having to carry around a muddy and grumpy kitten for the rest of the night. It just wasn’t worth the extra hassle. He sighed and began sweeping the crowd with his gaze again. He didn’t think it likely that Sarah or her captor would have access to retro clothing for the occasion, so he focused his attention on the people in modern attire. It didn’t help that most of them had scarves, hats and heavy coats on, which acted as inadvertent disguise.

  He carried on taking sips from his cup, though he’d already emptied it. It gave him a reason to still be at the table, and made it look less like he was engaged in surveillance. It was annoyingly difficult to stare at the crowd without being obvious about it. Should’ve brought a big newspaper to hide behind, he thought, although reading a newspaper at a supernatural party would probably make him more conspicuous, if anything. He settled instead for pretending to look at his phone, the standard twenty-first century signal that one didn’t want to be bothered by such inconsequential things as the outside world, real life, or actual human contact.

  It was then he discovered his mobile didn’t have a signal. Contacting the Custodians, therefore, was going to be an issue. Trev winced. So far his stakeout operation was noteworthy only for its utter incompetence. All he could do was press on and hope for the best.

  He raised his eyes and went over the crowd again. It had reached the point where he’d done it so many times, everyone he looked at seemed familiar. He was aware his attention was beginning to wander. Were it not for Walcott’s firm prediction that he’d see Sarah that evening, he might’ve considered jacking it in and going back to his flat. His warm, cosy flat. Which was equipped with a TV, a bed and some beers.

  I really am very cold. Well, half of me is.

  He was barely paying attention, but as he stared into the crowd a little ping of recognition went off in his brain. He’d seen something. A movement that struck a chord with him. He frowned. It was a woman with long blonde curls spilling out from beneath a red bobble hat. She was standing next to one of the clothing stalls, her back to Trev. What had she done to catch his eye?

  She did it again.

  She hooked her hair behind her ear in a way that Trev knew extremely well.

  Sarah?

  But Sarah has brown hair, Trev thought, before remembering that a woman changing her hair colour or style wasn’t exactly unheard of. He half-rose from his seat, willing the woman to turn around. She didn’t. It appeared she was holding a conversation with the man next to her, who was clad in a full-length black greatcoat and carrying an umbrella. His face was partially obscured by his woolly hat and scarf, but Trev could see that he wore a full beard. There was something familiar about him.

  He dumped his cup in an overflowing waste bin and adjusted his hat and scarf to hide as much of his face as he could. He tapped the front of his coat, none too gently.

  ‘What?’ said Oscar

  ‘Spotted her,’ Trev replied.

  ‘Who’s she with?’

  ‘Some bloke. Tall. Beard.’

  ‘Anyone you know?’

  ‘Don’t think so. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Not sure. Feels like I’ve seen him before, maybe.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Try to get a bit closer. See what they’re up to.’

  ‘Don’t let them see you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t panic, I’m going full James Bond.’

  ‘So you’re going to walk up to your enemy and introduce yourself using your real name?’

  Trev sighed. ‘Fine. Jason Bourne then.’

  ‘So you’re going to walk around in front of as many witnesses and CCTV cameras as you can but make no effort to disguise yourself?’

  ‘Any Hollywood spies you do approve of?’

  ‘Well, you’re more at the Austin Powers end of the scale, if we’re honest.’

  ‘I knew I should’ve bought that smoking jacket.’

  Trev worked his way into the crowd around the stalls, which still hadn’t thinned. He quickly lost sight of Sarah and her captor. He moved between the milling people as politely as he could, aiming for the place he’d seen them last. He reached it, and predictably they weren’t there.

  ‘Lost them,’ he murmured.

  ‘You don’t say,’ said Oscar, yawning.

  Trev looked around. He felt a rising surge of panic. Walcott only said I’d see Sarah and the man holding her, he thought. She didn’t say I’d have any actual contact with them. Are they already gone?

  His eyes flicked across the shifting mass of people, looking for Sarah’s blonde hair or the tall figure of her captor. There! He saw a flash of red and gold, just disappearing into a small blue canvas booth with silver lettering on the side.

  ‘Got them,’ Trev said. He strolled to a nearby stall from which he could observe the booth’s entrance. There was a heavy curtain hanging across the front of the booth, concealing the occupants. ‘They’re in one of the booths. I can’t see inside.’

  ‘Whose booth?’ asked Oscar.

  Trev peered at the silver letters. ‘There’s a monogram. Two B’s, back-to-back.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Berndt Bumburger,’ said Oscar.

  Trev blinked. ‘Who?’

  ‘He’s a German bloke. Does a bit of buying and selling, and appraisals.’

  ‘And he’s called Berndt Bumberger? Seriously?’

  ‘Grow up, Trev. It’s a perfectly normal name in German.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Trev shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s possible “Trev Irwin” means “wanker” in Chinese or something.’

  ‘It means that in English too.’

  Trev pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Thanks. So what do you know about this bloke?’

  ‘He used to be a pretty big operator. Not as big as Fisher’s, of course, but you could mention them in the same breath. Then he got caught trying to move some stolen items. Protested his innocence, naturally. Claimed he’d bought them in good faith and didn’t know they were stolen. He managed to avoid a prison sentence but it didn’t do his reputation much good, and reputation is the be-all and end-all in that trade. Most of his regular clients evaporated. He’s had to seriously down-scale his operation since then.’

  ‘Which is why he’s here.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You think Sarah’s captor is here to get that item appraised?’

  ‘Seems the logical conclusion. I’m not sure that old Berndt can afford to be choosy about his clientele these days.’

  ‘Right. So we watch and see what they do when they come out.’

  ‘Doesn’t need both of us to do that. Wake me up if anything happens.’

  Trev didn’t bother replying. He moved around the nearby stalls, making an effort not to look like he was loitering. There were still so many people ambling about that he went unremarked, at least as far as he could tell.

  Sarah and her captor had been inside the booth for about ten minutes, and Trev was just beginning to get nervous about how long he’d been in the same place, when a shout went up from the main entrance.

  Bowler came flying through the curtain backwards,
one hand pressed to his nose. His pale skin was splattered with blood. Immediately behind him came a group of men. They were all wearing ski masks and carrying baseball bats. One of them stepped forwards and cracked Bowler in the ribs as he tried to get up.

  ‘Right, you bunch of freaks,’ the man shouted, stepping over the prone vampire. ‘We’re the Line, and you’re all in deep shit.’

  Seventeen

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Trev, urgently tapping the front of his coat.

  ‘I heard, I heard,’ said Oscar. ‘Cover your face, Trev. You really don’t want these arseholes to get a look at you.’

  ‘Good point.’ Trev pulled his scarf up over his mouth and nose and tugged his hat down to his eyebrows. He ducked behind the stall. No signs of life from the booth. ‘This is crap timing by these wankers,’ he muttered.

  The Line had come in force. More and more people shoved through the curtain. They were an assortment of shapes and sizes; mostly men, by Trev’s reckoning, but despite their masks he thought he could see more than a few women in their ranks. They were a mass of nervous, excited energy, swinging their bats, jigging from foot to foot. Probably been in the pub stocking up on Dutch courage, Trev thought.

  Anger bubbled inside him. They’d found Sarah, had a good idea of why she was there, and had sight of her captor. And now the whole night’s work was going to be a trashed by a bunch of drunken dickheads looking to project their inadequacies onto someone else. He ground his teeth behind his scarf.

  ‘Any ideas?’ he said.

  ‘None worth sharing,’ said Oscar. ‘Let’s see what this lot want. This might just be a show of force rather than an attack.’

  Trev grunted. He stayed where he was as the crowd began to drain away from the stalls. The thumping music was abruptly silenced. A group of black-clad figures were dragging the startled DJ out of his booth. The hardy group of dancers were waking up to what was going on, turning to face the crowd of people falling back from the advancing group of Line thugs. Trev began to edge back too, keeping out of sight. Still nobody emerged from the booth.

  ‘Right! Listen to me!’ shouted the Line leader. He wasn’t a particularly large man, but he had a voice that carried with ease across the open space. He sounded as if he was used to giving orders, and having them obeyed. Ex-military? Trev wondered. The man’s posture was certainly upright enough, his baseball bat resting on one shoulder. ‘You lot have been skulking around in the dark for too long. Having your little parties. Stealing. Putting curses on people. Feeding on us. Leeching off society.’